


Nothing to be sorry for

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I mean KIND OF?, M/M, Mitch/Nate, Mitch/Team Canada, No Sex, just sad kissing, sad Canadian cuddle pile, this is so self-indulgently fluffy and I'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: Team Canada's proud of Mitch, even if he doesn't feel like he deserves it.





	Nothing to be sorry for

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how to tag this, so here's a little more detail if you want it.  Mitch kisses three different people in this fic and two of them – Claude and Alex – are a fair bit older than him, although the age difference isn't mentioned in the story.  There's no sex but there's showering together and cuddling and kissing; it's emotional and intimate but you can read Mitch’s relationship with the older guys as either platonic-but-physical or sexually charged as you like.  I'm undecided either way, myself.  The Mitch/Nate relationship has a sexy vibe but doesn’t actually go anywhere in the end.   
>    
> Mostly I just wanted to write something soft about Team Canada making Mitch feel better about that shootout and this happened.  I dunno, I'm sad, but I really like how much the team seemed to love him, especially these three guys.  Thanks for taking such good care of my smol son and giving him lots of stupid new nicknames, Canada :P  
>    
> Oh, and I don’t know who roomed with who at Worlds, so I went with the Convenient Plot Device option.  Artistic license ftw!

Rationally Mitch knows he’s played well all tournament, and everyone’s constantly said so.  _Irrationally_ he knows he’s singlehandedly responsible for the loss, and if he didn’t utterly suck at hockey they’d all be wearing gold and popping champagne all over each other right now.

The post-game interview is kind of heartbreaking.  He powers through it, doesn't cry on camera and only ends up lost for words once, which feels like it should be impossible.  Then he sinks into his stall in the locker room and just kind of checks out.  He's so exhausted and disappointed it feels like being dipped in concrete.  His limbs feel too heavy to move.  
   
Somebody says something to him, but he doesn’t really take it in.  Probably just some meaningless cliché about trying your best that he doesn’t want to hear anyway.  He doesn’t even look up.  Then Claude drops into his line of sight, crouching down in front of him.  
   
“Hey,” he says.  “Did you hear me?”  
   
Mitch blinks slowly.  He should probably answer when his captain asks him a question, but he feels like he used up all his words grinding out that awful interview.  Claude frowns.  He looks almost as tired and sad as Mitch feels.  
   
Then Claude reaches out to cup his face in both hands and presses a kiss to his mouth, light and sweet.   
   
Mitch doesn’t quite know how to react, so he doesn’t really; it’s kind of nice, and he figures it’s just a French thing he’s not used to, just meant to be comforting.  At least he thinks that until Alex sits down next to him, puts a big arm around his shoulders and kisses him too, a spot on the sweaty side of his neck just below the ear that makes him shiver.  Claude watches his face carefully, like he’s waiting for something, waiting for him to say no or say yes or…Mitch doesn’t know.  He doesn’t want them to go away but the attention makes him feel odd as well, the same kind of thrumming, exposed feeling as squaring up for a shootout that could cost his country the gold.

That _did_ cost his country the gold.

He squeezes his eyes shut so he can’t see Claude looking at him, but he lets himself list a little to the side, leaning into Alex’s shoulder.  He hopes that makes clear what he can’t quite clarify in his own head.  
   
“You did so good,” Claude says softly, thumb skating over his cheek.  Mitch doesn’t think he’s actually crying but it’s kind of hard to tell; his eyes are stinging and his face is still damp and gritty with sweat.  “I’m very proud of you,” Claude tells him seriously, which makes Mitch feel extremely small but treasured as well, sets up a deep warm ache in his chest.  
   
“We all are,” Alex agrees, and his low voice vibrates against Mitch’s shoulder.  
   
He swallows and blinks his eyes open just as Nate slides into the stall on his other side.  Claude gives him a smile, the big one that shows his missing tooth, and lets go of him so Nate can get a hand on his chin and gently turn his head.  Mitch goes – he feels so wrung out he doesn’t even think about it – and turns his face up automatically so Nate can kiss him too.   
   
This kiss is slow and deep; Mitch surrenders to it utterly as Nate licks into his mouth, feeling the tension in his body start to unravel just a tiny bit.  He lets Nate press him back against Alex’s chest, and feels surrounded and braced with Alex’s arm around him and Claude’s hands on his thighs and Nate’s nose pressing a little divot into his cheek.  Like even if every muscle in his body just gave up right now, the way a pretty big part of him wants to, he’d stay right where he is.  He makes a small, involuntary sound when Nate draws back, wounded and lost even to his own ears.  
   
“Shh,” Nate says, smiling.  “Let us take care of you, okay?”  
   
Mitch sniffs, then nods.  Okay.  
   
Claude settles back on the floor and takes hold of Mitch’s ankle, lifting his foot up onto Claude’s knee.  He unlaces his skate with sure, steady fingers and such a fond expression that Mitch feels embarrassed – he’s a rookie, a kid, a nobody, the Captain he only met a few weeks ago shouldn’t be on his knees for him – but Nate shushes him again, stroking a hand through his sweaty hair.  
   
“Arms up,” says Alex, tapping his shoulder and Mitch lets them take off his jersey.  Nate holds his hand while Alex leans over him to unstrap his wrist guard and then they swap for the other one, slow and careful and methodical.  Nobody makes any sudden movements or loud noises.  He can hear the rest of the team going through their routines in a hush, but only notices little snatches of what’s going on; TK leaning heavily on Simmer on the other side of the room, Jeff and Matt talking to Picks in low, reassuring voices.  Pointer meets his eye across the room and gives him an unhappy little half smile.  
   
Mitch let them all down.  His throat feels tight.  
   
Claude finishes taking his skates off and stays kneeling while the others half lift Mitch onto his feet.  He feels boneless and wobbly as the guys maneuver him out of his hockey pants and Claude helps him off with his socks and pads.  Nate sits down with him again while the other two strip, lets Mitch lean his head on his padded shoulder and runs his fingers soothingly through Mitch’s hair, then gently passes him off to Alex so he can shuck off his gear as well.  Then they peel off Mitch’s underarmour, like a sweaty second skin, and he lets himself be guided naked and stumbling into the showers.  
   
It should be awkward – not the nakedness but the tenderness, the way the three of them circle around him in an unbroken three-man embrace – but it isn't.  He gasps when the first shock of too-cold water hits him, and Claude all but holds him upright while Nate adjusts the taps until the spray is hot enough.  When it’s just shy of scalding he comes back, and Mitch closes his eyes and tips his head back as soft hands scrub shampoo through his hair and work the tension from his tired muscles.  
   
“I didn’t know you could be this quiet,” Alex says, gently teasing as he rinses the shampoo out.  He rests a soapy hand on the back of Mitch’s neck and scritches his fingertips through the shorter hair at his nape; it sends a shivery warm sensation down his spine.  
   
The chirp is sweet but he doesn’t know what to say.  He settles for “I’m sorry,” and it sounds so miserable and pathetic he feels like an idiot and wishes he hadn't.

Nate snorts a tiny laugh.  “God, you’re cute,” he says, which really does not help Mitch stop feeling like a stupid kid, but it...it kind of feels good too.  He’s barely even younger than Nate, but being the team kid feels familiar and friendly, like maybe he doesn’t need to be responsible for everything, or even anything beyond himself.  Nate doesn’t get it, he doesn’t think, nothing about him suggests he’s ever been babied by anyone or ever felt like more of a follower than a leader.  But he doesn’t need to help on purpose to be helpful.

He wants someone to kiss him again, and Alex does as promptly as if he’d voiced the thought out loud, cradling his head in one big hand and coaxing his mouth open.  His beard isn’t as soft as Claude’s, the stubble scratches a little, but it’s a good kind of roughness that brings Mitch back to the real world a bit.  He sighs and slides a soapy arm around Nate’s shoulders, feels Claude kiss the nape of his neck  
   
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Claude says, warm and close against his skin.  “You didn’t lose this for us, we all lost it together.”  
   
Hearing it spoken out loud makes Mitch shake slightly, and he knows they can all feel it because there’s nothing between them but water and body heat.  
   
“I really wanted to win something,” he admits.  
   
The other three all laugh, but it's hollow, not like they’re making fun of him.  
   
“We all did, buddy,” says Alex.

Mitch wonders if it’s worse to say goodbye to your Cup chances in the middle of the season, or right at the very end, or six games into round one.  Maybe it just sucks no matter when it happens.  Maybe most of the Canadians at Worlds are just trying to make up for not being busy somewhere else while the tournament’s on.  
   
When he kisses Alex, doing instead of just letting something happen to him this time, he tries to put a lot of feelings into it; _sorry_ and _thank you_ and _I’m glad you’re here_ and other things that don’t really make complete sentences or sense.  He turns in the circle of arms around him to offer the same kiss to Nate, and then Claude.

“Thanks,” he tells his captain seriously.  “For looking out for me.”  He’s telling all of them, really.  Claude gives him that fond gap-toothed smile and Nate presses his face into his neck and Alex squeezes his hip, so Mitch thinks they get it, probably.  
   
Part of him just wants to stay here forever, but the water’s starting to run cold, so Claude pulls rank one last time and orders them all out of the shower.  They bundle Mitch up in a million towels and kind of shove him around between them until he laughs and nearly falls over, and Alex affectionately calls him a lightweight.

“As a fellow lightweight,” Claude says, “fuck you,” and that sets Nate giggling which sets _Mitch_ giggling too.  He tries to press his lips together but Claude pokes him in the ribs.

“Don’t be so shy about that tooth,” he winks, grinning.  “It’s killer.”  
   
“Yeah,” Nate snorts.  “Makes you look tough.”

Mitch sticks his tongue out and Nate responds by kissing him.  It’s playful but insistent; he's got like thirty pounds on Mitch and he grabs him by the hips and crowds him back against his stall easily, making Mitch suddenly very conscious that they're only wearing towels.  Nate runs his tongue along the ridge of Mitch’s teeth, catching on the broken one, and Mitch makes an indignant noise and tries to bite him.

“Hey, save it for the hotel, eh?” says Claude, amused.  “We've got a bus to catch.”  
   
“Okay,” says Nate easily, grinning.  “I’ll save it for the hotel.”

Mitch bites his own lip this time.  Oh.  
   
That thought seems to energise him for a moment, but by the time he’s dried off and got dressed he’s starting to flag again.  Alex sort of hovers over him as if he thinks he’s about to keel over – which is equal parts annoying and comforting, because he actually might – and then steers him onto the bus and claims the seat next to him.  Mitch immediately kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet up onto the seat, curling into Alex's side.  It makes him feel a bit like a little kid on a road trip, but in a good way, safe and warm and reassured.  Alex chuckles and puts an arm around him, settles a hand in Mitch's hair.

“I'm gonna miss you back home, lil Miz,” he says.  
   
“Why?” Mitch mumbles sleepily.   His head feels lighter, like all the thoughts have drained out of it, but his limbs are loose and heavy.  “Nobody left in Tampa that still puts up with your shit?” Alex laughs harder and ruffles his hair.  
   
He must drift off on the short drive back to the hotel, because the next thing he knows Alex is nudging him awake.  Some of the guys are talking about heading to a bar to drown their sorrows, but Mitch can’t stomach it.  He’s never really got much out of wallowing.  He hugs Alex goodnight and trudges into the lobby, so wrung out he doesn’t even notice Nate’s right behind him until they bump shoulders in the elevator.  Mitch leans into him and lets Nate take his weight, pressing his face into his shoulder.  
   
“You smell good,” he says drowsily, although it kind of comes out more sexy than sleepy.  Well, Nate curls an arm around his waist in response so that’s fine.  God, he’s so tired.  It feels like Nate’s the only thing holding him up.

Back in their room he lets the door support him once he’s closed it behind them, and Nate moves in to kiss him, lazy and slow, tipping his head right back.  
   
“You know I didn’t think I was going to like you, when we got our room assignments,” Nate says, kissing his way along Mitch’s jaw and tugging his tie loose at the same time.  “But I do.  So much, Marnsy.“  
   
“I get that a lot,” Mitch tells him.  It never really gets old, though.  He anchors a hand in Nate’s hair and holds on, feeling like his tired legs might go out from under him if he doesn’t.  His knees feel like jelly.  The kissing is nice, and the promise of Nate’s weight pressing him into the door and the big hands gripping his hips is even nicer, but it’s been such a fucking day.  
   
“Hey, wait,” he says after a moment, with immense effort.  Nate looks up at him, bleary-eyed and red-mouthed.    “Sorry,” Mitch says, and he _is_ really sorry.  His eyes flutter closed.  “It's not that I don't...I'm just so tired.”

“Oh thank god,” Nate sighs, half laughing.  “I feel like I'm about to fall down.”  
   
Mitch shoves him, but not too hard, not so that he’ll actually go anywhere.  “You idiot,” he yawns.

They get into the same twin bed together even though it’s not really big enough; with his head tucked under Nate's chin and Nate's arm looped warm and heavy around his waist, Mitch can't bring himself to care.  He's so tired anyway he could probably sleep on the floor, and he starts to drift almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, thoughts going fuzzy around the edges.

“I’m happy for Willie,” he says in a small voice, because it suddenly seems very important to say.  It comes out cracked and raw, like he’s been crying, or like he hasn’t spoken in too long.  Nate kisses his forehead.

“’Course you are,” he says.  “You’re a good teammate.”  Then he adds, with a grin in his voice, “I'm gonna ask if we can trade Tys for you as soon as I get home.  Toronto needs D, right?”  
   
“Your _mom_ needs D,” Mitch says, kicking him in the shin.  He’s going to retire in Toronto, he’s decided.  He doesn’t care how out of his control that decision is, it’s happening.  
   
“You’re the worst,” Nate says, and Mitch would say “no, you” or something equally dumb, like “I really like you too,” or “I hope we get to do this again.” 

But Nate presses another kiss into his hairline, and Mitch is asleep before he can form the words.


End file.
